


Visage

by asterspire



Category: Original Fiction - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterspire/pseuds/asterspire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years later, when he would be able to feel the magic surge to meet his veins like moth to flame and toy with people’s thoughts in a sick imitation of puppeteer, he would remember- he hadn’t exactly volunteered for the escort job. Alluring words and the promise of coin could sway someone like him far when he hadn’t even a corner to call his own. His only warning, in fact, had been the dismal sway of his stomach as he cautiously pulled on his riding gloves and turned around to see the girl’s saccharine smile- too simpering to be sincere, and too sharp to be harmless. Somewhere in the midst, his consciousness had laughed at himself as the rattle of the wheels clicked a flippant rhythm. </p>
<p>Rafael struggles to find acceptance in a society where those born with magic are shunned whilst those who are self-taught are praised. In a world of shifting alliances and tentative securities, no one is exactly who they seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visage

Years later, when he would be able to feel the magic surge to meet his veins like moth to flame and toy with people’s thoughts in a sick imitation of puppeteer, he would remember- he hadn’t exactly volunteered for the escort job. Alluring words and the promise of coin could sway someone like him far when he hadn’t even a corner to call his own. His only warning, in fact, had been the dismal sway of his stomach as he cautiously pulled on his riding gloves and turned around to see the girl’s saccharine smile- too simpering to be sincere, and too sharp to be harmless. Somewhere in the midst, his consciousness had laughed at himself as the rattle of the wheels clicked a flippant rhythm.

\---

A fortnight and set of muddied travel gear later, with calloused hands and swollen feet, he not-too-kindly grits out that no, they are not there yet, and yes, they would break camp soon. He hopes that she doesn’t notice the sweat sheen clinging to the wrinkle in his brow, or the purpled circles that had bloomed under his eyes during hyperattentive night watch sessions.

I’ve slept what, maybe...three hours in the past two days?

Rafael scowls at himself in disdain, only to quickly let the expression slide off his face at the quirk of Evelyn’s pointed glossed smirk. She already looks down on him enough, and he won’t give her another reason to that easily.

Evelyn, ever the expert at knowing when Rafael’s inwardly scorning her, tilts her head in a pouty way, mousy hair falling into her eyes in dejection, and not for the first time on this horrid journey Rafael wishes that her delicate appearance would only match her personality. As if by reading his thoughts, the seer huffs and pulls her long hair back in an ornate comb as she examines her nails. He can almost hear the simpering drip off her tongue when she finally decides to grace him with speech.

“Are you sure that we’re going in the right direction?” She trails off meaningfully, giving her scalp a few bored swipes with the comb- “because, according to the map we should’ve reached the capital yesterday.”

Rafael clenches his teeth. Count to ten, someone had once told him. Well, clearly that someone had never had to travel with someone as condescending, as insufferable as present company and- He takes a deep breath.

“Right, and how many times have you actually been outside? Plus, we’ve been taking a lot of the side roads because apparently you’re in need of protection.” He can’t help the slip of sarcasm in his voice, he really can’t, because one can only manage for so long before letting some trace of ire shine through.

That silences her, if only for a moment, before she shifts in her spot and Rafael hears the slough of her velvet traveling cloak as she hands it to the silent guard on the adjacent seat. The carriage gives a little groan as Evelyn stands up and stretches, having requested that the carriage’s “stuffy” retractable ceiling be pulled back promptly into their travels.

Rafael considers chiding her on the safety of her actions but ultimately ignores the thought. The necessity of the job had long placed him in a state of hypersensitivity to the road, bristling at every shadow in the adjacent roads and somewhat desperately wishing that his fellow escort hadn’t fallen asleep.

“Hey, Rafael?”

Rafael gives a hum of affirmation as he steers them into the mountain pass.

“Stop the carriage right now.”

Before he can blink there’s a blur of motion from over his right shoulder and the tip of an ivory comb is pressed into his neck, threatening to break skin if he even tries to swallow. Except, he realizes as he looks down to see the carefully concealed needle protruding from the center of the comb, that the device isn’t exactly a comb at all. The greenish tint of the needle’s tip must’ve matched his own unsteady eyes as Evelyn sharply jerks his shoulder and readjusts her grip on the comb.

“You heard what I said.”

Rafael hadn’t even realized that he was still easing on the horses through the ordeal. He would laugh at himself, he thinks, if he wasn’t feeling so terrified. As such, he pulls the whinnying mares into a gentle stop without taking his eyes off the girl in front of him.

Evelyn smiles sweetly, the gesture not quite reaching her long-lashed eyes. “Thank you,” she adds smoothly, and if her voice had slipped into a huskier texture Rafael is certain that it’s simply his imagination. At least, that’s the last coherent thought he has about it before he’s promptly knocked out.

\---

Rafael’s never fancied himself a farmer boy, but two months into his arrival of yet another village, he supposes a farmer boy he’ll have to be. Sunlight trickles generously through the foliage of the ash tree as he wrings clods of dirt from faded denim pants. 

A fat pile of turnips sits somewhere off to his left, resting snugly in a hand-woven basket- less than a third of his work is done, and yet it seems that he had already harvested enough to feed a modest urban village twice over. Rafael snorts to himself as he remembers a recent dinner lecture over the rising costs of trade and the necessity of him being a diligent farmer to facilitate good sales and smart profits and- right. He had tuned out at about that point. 

He puts a clamp on his cynicism if only to remind himself that he should be grateful to have somewhere to stay at all, for someone who hadn’t a place and hardly a penny to call his own. He yanks out a root vegetable a bit too roughly at the thought, grimacing at the dirt that scatters near his eyes as if in indignation. 

Elegant of him, he thinks. At least he’s not founded any suspicion among the current villagers for lacking the natural aptitude for agriculture that everyone else seems to possess. 

Rafael hears a muffled giggle behind him at his loss of composure, and he whirls to find Eloise standing behind him. The petite girl offers him a wry smile, shattering his internal monologue.

“I told you you’ve always been a better fit for chopping wood, Rafael. Even you can’t mess that up.” 

Some part of him breathes a sigh of relief that she hadn’t come to poke fun of his competence, but Eloise is a kind person. His heart rends just a little bit every time he reminds himself that everything she knows about him are lies.

“Oh, stop trying to shove your chores onto me, Lou. As always, that is.”

Eloise chuckles and begins to walk away to check on the stables, and Rafael remembers that one of the trinkets from his morning hike still rests in his pocket. He fumbles a bit as he carefully places the most recent turnip on the stack and shoves a hand into his overall pocket.

“Hey, Eloise? I found these on the mountain ridge while we were looking for game. You can have them.”

The girl barely has time to turn around before catching the bundle of purple blooms, having the decency to look pleasantly surprised even though every villager alike knew she adored the iris plants that sprouted near the top of the ridge; she was only less fond of the wolves that tended to circle the alpine regions. 

Eloise tucks the gift into her apron pocket like a treasure, and Rafael knows that she when she gets home she will beg her mother for a tin cup to keep in her room to house them in. The sparse flower heads loll gaily over the pocket edge as she bids her thanks to Rafael and hurries to complete her chores.

Rafael watches her depart for only a moment before turning back to finish harvesting. He’s been to a few towns where the people he lived were less amiable, and needless to say he slipped out of those lifestyles relatively quickly. Even if as far as his “mother” and “sister” were concerned Rafael was a modest eldest son, who, despite being skilled at business and study, had a sour hunting arm and an even worse green thumb. 

It brings him a glimmer of pride but no small amount of shame on the nights that he lies awake, remembering the look on each of the townspeople’s faces as he slowly wove the shards of his deceit into their consciousness. Rafael? Of course they knew Rafael? The one who’d stay late at the schoolhouse to tutor the littl’uns, the one who’d accidentally baited the mad dog and nearly died, the one sorted the tailor’s bolts of fabric for coin during the summer….the list went on.

He’s always tried to include as little information as possible during these sweeps, not wanting to needlessly inflate his character. In reality, though, he should’ve at least not made himself out to be bad at hunting. Much as he’s grateful for trading acceptance with a false identity, he also can’t deny the twist of guilt in his chest as he does village domestic work and can’t even physically distance himself from his lies.

Rafael sighs. It’s an old train of thought, and an over-trod one. He finishes the rest of his work in silence.

Once he’s meticulously stacked the turnips into a woven basket he tucks it under one arm, humming a dry tune. He stops to greet the townspeople: a wave to the butcher, a friendly “good evening” to the florist, and he’s almost to the comforting lantern light of his home’s stoop before he quite literally runs into the imposing form of the town’s baker. His survival instincts flare up just a bit before he soothes his thoughts into submission.

“Rafael, my boy! You always seem down these days. How are things at the house?”

Rafael stumbles out an entertaining vignette that Eloise’s mother had shared at the dinner table, as his stout companion nods good-naturedly to his story and at the conclusion hands him a basket of buttered bread. He takes the basket gratefully, even though he knows he has nothing to reciprocate with. The baker seems to sense some of his rue and nods sagely.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel like telling me, son. Just take care of yourself, alright? It’d be a shame to worry your mother.”

Rafael nods wordlessly and offers a shy smile, turning to let himself in as soon as the baker had left. The sight of the warm bread is a reminder to hurry home, and it’s with haste that he dutifully delivers both of his baskets into the warm embrace of his surrogate mother.

He begins to offer to tidy up, or begin cooking supper, or whatever Eloise’s mother may need done, when both of them are halted by the sound of a piercing scream.

His intuition flares as the first thought on his mind is Eloise. The scream couldn’t have come from far, and it sounded as if it was in the direction of the stable. Rafael drops the dust cloth he had picked up to polish the table and stumbles out a quick explanation to Eloise’s mother before wildly gesturing for her to follow him into the sun-crisped autumn air.

Rafael quickly picks his way around the miscellaneous farming tools and stray chickens around his property as his rubber soles crunch ominously on the dry autumn leaves. He hears the trouble before he sees it. The sound of the horses’ panicked whinnying and what he identifies to be a low growl make Rafael exercise caution in his approach, needlessly holding a finger to his lips as a signal to his companion.

He peers inside and sees Eloise perched on an upside-down mucking bucket, holding out a broom as if to threaten the two wolves that circle at her feet. Rafael’s mind flickers between scraps of memory of people lost to the mage-driven hounds, but he steels his resolve to assess the situation: he had a sharpened spade on him that he typically used to help with weeding, but even if he took one wolf out that would only alert the other. His mouth goes dry as he considers the other alternative. He had never imprinted on a creature that wasn’t human before; he’d never even considered it was possible.

Eloise’s eyes meet Rafael’s and he nods in reassurance, seeing her shoulders crumple in relief for only a moment before she resumes her defensive stance. Rafael sucks in a breath. Now that he had promised he would take action, he would have to go through with his idea, harebrained as it may be.

Rafael inhales deeply and closes his eyes, almost feeling the incredulous stare of Eloise’s mother at his seeming inaction. He focuses on the wolves’ threads of consciousness, imagining himself sifting through the sediment of their minds to find a peaceful common plain. 

He carefully plants images in their thoughts: of being fed meat by this family, of being given a place to sleep under the gnarled stoop, of Eloise scratching one behind the ears- He’s hastily interrupted by his method by the sound of a yelp from Eloise, and Rafael snaps his eyes open with the sinking realization that he had failed.

Heart heavy, he rushes forward to save Eloise, only to hear her yelp devolve into a giggle as the wolves continue to nuzzle her hand. She looks momentarily confused, and Rafael hastily spins a memory about the two wolves she had been watching grow up since they were just puppies. Eloise blinks and in the next instant is content, allowing the wolves to lead her out of the stable.

Rafael allows himself to breathe a relieved sigh before he feels a piercing stare on his back, and turns to face the disapproving glare of Eloise’s mother. His mouth goes dry. He had forgotten that she was standing there, and he couldn’t think of anything at the immediate moment to overwrite her suspicion.

“You…” she begins, her gentle voice sharpening into a shrill accusation. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? One of those cursed mage folk that the King keeps warning us about! To think that my own little boy…”

In his panic, Rafael feels the fake threads of memory that he had held secure begin to slip, and he’s shoved out of the woman’s headspace entirely as every false idea he’d planted shatters.  
Eloise’s mother screws up her face in concentration. Her glare turns murderous as the facade is cleared completely. “Who are you and what have you done?” Her whisper is a mixture of horror and defiance, and she looks to be mere moments from sprinting out of the stable and declaring a hunt. “Why- ”

That’s all that Rafael stays to hear before he recovers the sense to bolt. He nearly trips over his borrowed pants in his hurry, the once comfortable town becoming a blur of auburn and motion and the still-settling dusk. In his mortification, he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t even think about gathering any of his belongings. 

All he focuses on is getting away. 

He should be long used to this dissonance, to his world diffusing into a thousand pieces at the slightest misstep, and the fact that the true cost of survival like this is that he’s just waiting for whatever poor soul he intrudes upon to pull out the welcome mat from under him.

Hours later, as Rafael finally crouches in the wooded alpines to catch his breath, he allows himself to catch some much-needed breaths of air. In a few days, without him there to keep reinforcing the charm, the townspeople’s memories of him would fade into dust and nothingness, and it would be as if he never existed- save for a mysterious basket of harvested turnips resting on Eloise’s kitchen counter.

It was time to move on to the next town.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little thing that I decided to write to try my hand at original fiction, but I'm not sure whether I'll continue it. Thanks for reading!


End file.
